


our love is scattered ash (with a burnt-up feeling)

by ElasticElla



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Character Death Fix, Dark, M/M, Multi, Sharing a Brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: Martin would have made a great supervillain with his monologuing, and the thought turns his stomach.After all: this would be their origin story.
Relationships: Ronnie Raymond/Martin Stein, Ronnie Raymond/Mick Rory/Martin Stein
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	our love is scattered ash (with a burnt-up feeling)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> me: what if we made firestorm's merging more angsty  
> ◅～(｡^ヮ^｡)Ψ
> 
> title from carpenter's smoke and fire

Ronnie blames the frustration, doubled and deeper, because Martin amplifies everything now. Martin had said a bunch shit about how the Firestorm matrix evolved after their interaction with the singularity, and jesus, he has a pair of college degrees, still feels like an idiot whenever Martin goes off on one of his theoretical spiels. He would have made a great supervillain with his monologuing, and the thought turns his stomach. 

After all: this would be their origin story. 

They’re more unstable now, an itch to merge whenever singular. Can feel each other more sharply if apart, a recursive urge to combine. It’s unsurprising that the urge follows them even once merged, there are no silver linings to be had. That the frustration and urges turn sexual is just another unfortunate side-effect. Albeit an uncomfortable one that they’ve both been forced to rapidly come to terms with. There’s only so many times you can jack off in a shared mental space before it becomes the new normal. (Eight. The number is eight times.)

Their minds and feelings have become so tangled, some days he isn’t sure what belongs to who. In the moment, it’s easy to identify, but once it becomes a memory, shared between them… No matter, it isn’t mutable and it has its own upsides – the pain of being away from Caitlin-Clarissa fades to nothingness. There is a distant fondness, as if behind tinted glass. 

_Fascinating_ , they think. This is the first time they’ve noted thinking of either, both, women without any accompanying heart-wrenching agony. Progress, how wondrous. 

Progress would be getting laid, Ronnie thinks. 

Oh yes, smashing idea, Martin’s reply comes immediately. I can’t imagine anything going wrong there. Let’s set some poor soul on fire by mistake. Then we can get a round of milkshakes and fries after our murder. 

Crotchety old man, Ronnie quickly adding on, let’s go to the outskirts. Work on our control. (Their hand catches fire _once_ while getting off, and Martin throws it in their face whenever he so much as thinks of talking to another person, much less touching.)

Martin harrumphs, quiet otherwise, and they fly to the deserted parking lot a few miles from the city. It’s far enough that the suspicious fires aren’t questioned as long as they’re out by morning. Tonight is a dark night with no moon, and they feel even brighter than normal as they fling fire at a dumpster a few hundred yards away. 

Irritation grows when the majority of hits don’t land – they were so much better at this before, and Martin’s happy to cheerfully remind him how good everything was when he had all control over them, when it was his body and Martin’s mind. Now it’s like there are four hands and fifty puppet strings, and some of those strings are twisted together, and when they both go for the same one –

“Dammit!” 

A bush to the side, far left enough that it really shouldn’t have been within range, burns. 

Martin tisks, had you not over-corrected our wrist, that wouldn’t have happened. 

Or you, Ronnie shoots back, mutinous. 

I was clearly telegraphing – what is that?

They turn, and oh fuck, there’s a person. 

“Back off,” they say, but the person comes closer, seemingly unafraid of the man with flaming fists. 

“Yer back firebird. Wanted to talk before. You flew away.” 

He loosely holds a gun at his side, and they stay aflame. He’s dangerous, if not to them, a criminal of some sort likely. They recognize him in another beat: indeed a criminal, Mick Rory.

“And what, Mr. Rory, did you wish to speak of?” 

The man stumbles forward, as if drunk, eyes big and stuck on his hands. Testing a theory, they briefly push a little more into the flames, blooming up. 

Rory licks his lips, glinting in the firelight, mumbles, “Beautiful.” 

He’d let us do anything, Ronnie whispers, feeling like the devil on their shoulder. Bet we could get him on his knees out here in the open, have him sucking us off like he – 

Their head catches fire, and Martin’s chiding, really Ronnie, dampens nothing. He can feel their desire strengthening, all the lust from before coming back stronger now with a potential outlet. 

He’s a human, Martin argues. We aren’t ready. 

Ronnie can’t hide the smugness from Martin, is sure the man knows the flaw as well in his argument. And since when, he thinks, overly pleased, do you care what happens to ‘no-good criminals’?

Martin bristles, and Rory takes another step closer. 

Look at him, Ronnie thinks, letting a hand go out before reaching for him. Rory doesn’t flinch, not even when they cup his face, well aware that hand could reignite. 

He’d let us do _anything_. 

Their thumb brushes over his lips, and Martin doesn’t protest the motion. Rory neither, lips parting gently. They can see the fire reflected in his eyes, arching higher when he licks their thumb. 

“I don’t have full control,” Martin confesses while Ronnie is distracted, the sly bastard. 

He ought to know what he’s getting into, Martin shoots back, and at least the old man had the common sense to use first person singular. 

Such selfishness is truly the providence of youth, Martin adds, lofty. (It’s almost impressive that he manages the smarmy tone given the current external stimuli.)

“Don’t care,” Rory grunts, and yes, Ronnie shouts, can feel their eyes burning. 

“So beautiful,” Rory repeats, and they slide their hand back to cup his neck. 

Feel like a god when they demand, “Show me.” 

Rory drops to his knees, not a second too soon as their hand reignites. Send blasts of fire far past the testing area when fingers shove down their pants, lips wrap around them. His enthusiasm is a thing of glory, as is how he looks up at them, reflected flames burning in his pupils. 

He’s ours, Ronnie headily thinks, he’s truly ours. The only to look upon their form fearlessly and want, fearlessly and deliver. 

He is extraordinary, Martin grants, and they would laugh if it weren’t for the way Rory twists his tongue about them, pleasure exploding in duplicate as they come. Their flames burn ever higher before settling, go out easy now. 

Rory stands, voice gruff, “So your dick doesn’t shoot fire. That’s good.” 

Too many feelings bubble up at the declaration – too much trust in a stranger taking precedence – and they crush their lips together. 

We’re keeping him, Ronnie thinks, as they tilt his head back, deepening the kiss. 

Yes, Mr. Raymond, Martin agrees, we most certainly are.


End file.
